My knee is hurting more and more. The other night it was so bad that I considered going to the Emergency Room, but I decided to tough it out and take it to Urgent Care in the morning. The ER is where you go if you're on the verge of death, missing members, or bleeding profusely, particularly from someplace that oughtn't bleed like the eyes or genitals. I think it's probably a medical faux pas to go into the Emergency Room with a problem that you can just bite the bullet and deal with until Urgent Care opens up. "Well la-dee-da," the doctors would say amongst themselves, out of view of the patients. "Looks like someone hurt his knee and came into the Emergency Room. Boo hoo." Then when he came in to see me, the doctor would call me either a sissy or a faggot.

But not the doctor at Urgent Care. No sir, because that's the appropriate place to go with problems like a badly hurting knee.

Doc was young. About my age, I think. I felt like I was being treated by the guy from SCRUBS. He did a good job though, and moved my leg around and x-rayed it and gave me one of those nifty knee sleeves to wear, which gets very sweaty and consequently very itchy. He couldn't find any physical abnormalities in my knee, and figures I somehow sprained the living crap out of it. He told me to take some analgesics if the pain gets bad, and do my best not to smack it around and injure it further. I've got the second bit covered, but I'm not really into the first bit; I hate taking drugs of any kind, for any reason. Unless the pain is absolutely blinding, I'd much rather bite my lip and take it like a man than resort to chemically altering the balance of my neurotransmitters and all that stuff up there inside my brain. Testosteronal machismo, or my pseudo-straightedge mentality rearing it's sober, decaffeinated face? Perhaps a little of both.

I would have received little sympathy in the ER, among the two GSW's and the guy with the harpoon in his throat.

My hand is feeling better, but I still haven't been to a doctor. I guess that's a good thing, because now my knee hurts too, and I can get them both looked at in the same visit. It sucks, because it's inhibiting my everyday activities like squatting and climbing staircases. You'd be surprised how many times you squat in a day. It's really amazing. I don't really know how it happened either, although I suspect it may have something to do with the hundred jumping jacks I did the other night. But who throws out their knee doing jumping jacks? That sounds pretty bogus to me. But I can't think of anything else that may have aggravated it, so that remains the number one suspect for now.

In other news, school starts on Monday. Not too excited about that. It could be a lot worse, though. At least I don't have colon cancer or anything gross like that.

But then maybe I shouldn't say anything until after my doctor's appointment.


<- Happenin' dance moves, or blinding pain? You be the judge.

Elaine is in Bolivia for three weeks visiting some family, and my sister-in-law Lauren is in Mexico doing some missions work for the week, so my brother Matt and I are bachelors for a while. The other night we went up to Matt's apartment with the boys for a bachelor's movie night, featuring Old School. It was the kickoff to Project:Regarding Henry, our latest fest whose purpose is to bring us up to speed on movies which all but one member of the group has seen, much like Henry's loved ones had to catch him up on the aspects of his life that he lost when he was shot in the head, or whatever happened to him, I haven't seen the movie yet. It's on our roster.

We wanted to kick off P:RH with a little bit of class; images of roasting s'mores in the fireplace and drinking fine wine ran through our heads. So Brent and Charles made a trip to liberate some mallows and grahams from the church fridge, and Matt and I knew exactly what to do for the other half of the equation: The Girl.

The Girl is a four-foot tall bottle of chianti that's shaped like a woman. She's been sitting in my house for years, awaiting an occasion worthy of her opening. And we all knew that this was definitely the occasion.

As Robert Burns once said, the best laid plans of mice and men go oft astray, and this is especially true for any plans that are birthed in notions of five rapscallions roasting s'mores and drinking fine wine together in front of a fireplace. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but the boys ended up roasting their marshmallows over The George Forman Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine, while I rummaged through Matt's fridge, complaining that he didn't have any bananas.

And as for The Girl, well a funny thing happened with her.

Matt broke the seal that guarded The Girl's opening, and with the help of Durfey, poured her contents into five fancy wine glasses. "This is it, gentlemen," we said amongst ourselves. "To Project:Regarding Henry!"

And one bye one, sounds of disgust were heard throughout that living room.

"She's bad!" Matt exclaimed. "After all this time, she turns out to be bad!"

"She's gone to vinegar!" Durfey was heard to lament. "This sucks!"

Yes, the wine was bad. Bad! The Girl had so much promise; none of us could believe it!

Charles and I still had full glasses in our hands. Neither of us had tasted the befouled spirit yet, but we knew what we had to do. This wasn't just a glass of bad wine. This was brotherhood. Camaraderie. Charles and I looked at each other. "Bottoms up," I said as we clinked our glasses. We took a sip in unison. Our eyebrows raised. Then our eyes squinted. We looked at each other again.

"This isn't half bad," Charles said.

"Best glass of wine I've ever had!" I announced.

Yes it's true, Charles and I really liked the supposedly bad wine. It didn't taste like vinegar at all, at least to me. It had a nice aged flavor, robust and full of body.

Like I have any idea what I'm talking about.

But seriously, I thought it was great. The only problem is, I really hate alcohol. I rarely drink, and when I do, I water the heck out of it. It's not just because the idea of injecting my brain with chemicals that will do nothing but slow it down is stupid to me; I really can't stand the taste of alcohol. Why ruin a perfectly good drink by putting booze in it, I always say. Same goes for Charles, I'm pretty sure.

Maybe that's why we both liked it - The Girl's wine didn't taste like wine ought to taste, and we both hate the taste of wine, so this drink's taste was good to us.

And now here lies the irony – and the tragedy – of the situation: the only two people who enjoyed the wine don't drink, and those who enjoy a drink did not like the wine.

Now that's freaking poetic in some way, I'm sure.

Top: With both the girls off in foreign lands for the week, bachelorhood reigned supreme.
Bottom: It was a night of unbridled debauchery by all accounts, minus any unwholesome behavior associated with the word.

So I'm pretty sure my hand's been broken for about a year or so. It began hurting a long time back, and it wasn't long before I became accustomed to the pain and stopped noticing it. Fast forward to a few months ago. I strike my hand and careen into a whirlwind of pain. You better believe I remembered the past discomfort after that. I looked at my hand and noticed that I've got a hard bulge about an inch and a half north of the wrist. The same bulge had been there before, but either descended back into the hand or stopped getting noticed by me once I started getting used to the pain. Fast forward another few months. We're now at the end of July. I've forgotten about my hand once again , but quickly remember it when I throw it against someone's face, and am in more pain than the freshman who just got his wagon fixed. The bulge is now bigger than ever, and boy does it suck. I've decided this time I should take it to a doctor, before I forget about it again.


Left: My freakish left hand, with what I think might be a bit of bone poking up out of the top.
Right: A normal hand, for comparison. Note the lack of disgusting protrusions.